So . . . you love my abs? I knew it. My butt is pretty awesome too, isn’t it?

Sorry, Delilah has left the building.

Look, you don’t have to beg. I’ll send you a picture.

Don’t you dare!

I lift up my shirt, take a quick picture of my abs, and send it.

Asshole!

Now, Delilah, don’t get kinky with your requests. I draw the line at ass shots.

ARGH!

Laughing, I leave it at that. She doesn’t respond again, which is kind of a disappointment, and I’m left not knowing what to do. Ordinarily, I’d be out—visiting acquaintances, jogging along the mountain paths, whatever I could to occupy my mind.

With North and Delilah out, the house is still and quiet. The distant crash of the sea against the shore is a constant hum. An hour rolls by, too still, too quiet. I get up and walk slowly from room to room, chasing the sun as it slants through the massive windows. I know every inch of this place. It is all mine.

Growing up, nothing was mine. Not even my bedroom. It could be invaded without warning. There was no safe space. I used to dream of my own place, design it in my mind’s eye—where it would be, how it would look. I grew up in a mansion, so I knew all about beautiful spaces. That didn’t interest me as much as thinking about light and space. A place to breathe freely, see everything around me with clear eyes.

The pool shimmers in the afternoon sun. I’m not yet allowed to go swimming, but damn if it isn’t tempting. To the best of my knowledge, Delilah hasn’t gone near the pool. Did she even swim? The last time I saw her in a bathing suit was when she was thirteen. She caught me looking a few times—much to my horror—and hadn’t been pleased. I can’t say I blamed her. I was pissed as well—both at being caught and over my lack of self-control. It was a relief when she stopped going to the lake with Sam and me to swim.

Only, it left me alone with Sam. The realization that without Delilah in the equation, that hanging out with Sam was an exercise in patience and boredom was an ugly shock. Shortly after, I made certain we always went out with a big group of friends.

With that regrettable memory prodding my back, I turn away from the view and head for the kitchen. Delilah has left me a lunch. There’s a note with instructions, as if it wouldn’t occur to me to take the cellophane wrap off the plate before I ate my food. Smirking, I set the note aside and am pulling the carefully wrapped plate out of the fridge when my phone dings.

It’s from North.

Someone’s gone viral. lol

I grow cold inside. Have more photos surfaced? I paid a lot of money to gather up the majority of the photos of me in the wreckage. But I might as well have tried to hold water in a sieve. North sends me a video link.

Hell, video?

Gritting my teeth, I click the link. And find my mouth falling open.

I’m so shocked I’m not sure I can trust what I’m seeing. But there Delilah is, standing on a chair in what looks to be Karen’s outer office and belting out Gloria Gaynor with such feeling it almost makes up for her terrible singing voice. Almost.

Delilah shimmies and shakes, setting all her abundant curves in glorious motion. She is completely uninhibited. And she is magnificent.

A laugh bursts out of me. I laugh so hard my bruised ribs protest. But I can’t stop. It keeps tumbling out. I laugh until tears leak from my eyes. And just when I finally get myself under control, I break down and start all over again.

I can’t help it. The video is just so Delilah and yet not. It’s the Delilah I always suspected hid under the surface, yet so much more. It’s clear she’s performing to piss Karen off, and it’s obviously working judging by Karen’s screeches.

I’m suddenly extremely sorry I wasn’t there to witness all of this in person.

The second viewing only gets better.

I’m wheezing with laughter when the phone rings. Karen’s name flashes on the screen, and I know I’m in for an earful. I can’t control my voice when I answer.

“Oh, good,” Karen snaps. “You’re laughing. Clearly you’ve seen it.”

A snicker escapes before I clear my throat. “Twice, actually.”

“Are you going to do something about it?”

“Such as?”

There’s a sound of utter disgust. “Fire her, obviously.”

“For that?” I unwrap my lunch and find a cold Moroccan-style chicken-and-bulgur salad. “It was the best laugh I’ve had in years. I’m kind of thinking she needs a raise.”

Well, I’d give her one if she was working for a salary. Ah, that pinches. Right in the guilt department. I shake it off as Karen launches into a tirade.